Mingan rifled through the contents of his pack, pulling out a spare set of clothing. They were his standard pair of well-worn blue jeans and a button down, long sleeved shirt.

"Here." He handed the garments to the girl. "You can put these on. They will protect you from the cold tonight, as well as the terrain we will be covering in the morning."

She took the clothes with a hesitant nod, looking them over briefly before slipping her legs into the pants, under her dress. She hitched them over her hips as best she could without straining the fresh stitches.

"Thank you," she said softly. Looking down over herself, she fingered the gash down the side of her gown. "My clothes are hardly reparable at this point," she commented and worked to tear the bottom portion of it away. Her hands were still weak from the lingering fever, and he watched for a long moment as she struggled. Leaning forward, careful not to touch her, he quickly ripped away the fabric and began shredding it into long strips.

"Lean forward," He told her, placing a clean cloth against her stitched wound before using the tattered strips of her night gown to wrap and bind it.

"How's that?" he asked.

"Much better." She carefully put his spare shirt on over the tattered remnants of her thin gown and leaned her head back against the tree trunk, closing her eyes.

"I suppose we're staying here for the night," he commented, reorganizing his pack, stowing away his first aid kit. "What are you called?" he asked, realizing he would need to call her something other than 'girl'.

She opened her eyes after a long moment, studying him. "I am Elloreah."

He thrust the bottle of liquor in her direction. "Drink, Elloreah. It will help with the pain. Then rest. We've a long way to go tomorrow."

She took the offered bottle, studying it briefly. "What name may I call you?" She asked before she raised it to her lips, choking down a mouthful before handing it back to him. Mingan took it, drinking before pulling off his jacket offering it to her.

She shook her head. "I simply could not," she murmured. "Not after you have done so much for me."

"You need to recover. My healing abilities are limited, the rest is up to you. If you're shivering and unable to rest, we'll be in the same situation come morning."

She took the battered leather garment reluctantly, wrapping it around her. Despite her initial reluctance, she paused momentarily as the warmth enveloped her. After a brief moment, she worked to force her arms into the sleeves. The zipper clearly perplexed her, fumbling with the modern device. Mingan chuckled and leaned forward to help her. Zippers were handy, though fairly new to him as well. It didn't surprise him that she found them unfamiliar.

"You can call me Mingan," he told her. It was not the only name he was known by, but it was the one most familiar to the Mythics of the Tutelar.

"Min-gan," she said slowly, feeling the name out carefully. He drew back and she pulled up the zipper, experimenting with the tab briefly before adding, "Thank you."

"You didn't exactly come prepared," he commented.

"I did not exactly plan for this to happen," she replied, and took another long pull from the bottle he handed to her. She grimaced. "And I am afraid my stomach is not strong enough for this liquor of yours."

He grinned and fished out his canteen, handing it to her in exchange for the bottle. "Are you hungry?"

She shook her head, running fingers over the ornamental stitching of the canteen. "What will happen to me?" her voice was soft, suddenly somber.

"I'm not entirely sure," he confessed. "The Tutelar will decide that."

She nodded solemnly before handing him back the canteen. "You have no say?"

He shook his head. "I have as little to do with the Tutelar and their leadership as I can."

"I see," she fidgeted with the cuff of the jacket, running long slender fingers over the rivets and stitching. "My fate will be decided by yet more strangers."

"You'd rather this stranger decide your fate?"

She looked up, knowing eyes seeming to bore through him. "You do not seem to trust this Tutelar. Why would I wish for them to decide my fate?"

He laughed. "As little as I might like the Tutelar, they are the law here, and as fair and just as they know how to be."

She studied him, a frown tugging at the corners of her lips.

"They'll know what's best for you," he said, a feeble attempt at reassuring her. "Rest, Elloreah."

She considered his words, exhaustion pulling at her eyelids. Each blink became heavier, slower, before she finally gave in and curled up against the tree roots. Sleep took her quickly after that. Mingan produced his tobacco pouch and rolled a cigarette with care. Fingering the tiny bit of paper wrapped comfort, he considered Elloreah for a long moment before shaking his head and lighting it.

Tomorrow, they would be at John's ranch. With any luck, Hayeta and Lokni would be there already, and he could send her with them. Alistair could decide what to make of her and he could go back to his wandering. Until then, he would need to focus on hiding what she was. The ranch was home to many humans. She was in need of a glamour.

He dug into his back for his book of runes. Coming up with the most basic glamour was within his abilities. Controlling and taming her powers, that gave him pause. He was a hunter, not a mage. His own glamour and protections were selected with the help of those much more versed in runes and old magics. It was something of a relief that she was sleeping, albeit fitfully. It would take some time to find a suitable combination of runes.